


you’ve taken all you can bear

by writingpenguin



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Communication, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon, airplane fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-06 09:10:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11597526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingpenguin/pseuds/writingpenguin
Summary: Thirty thousand feet off the ground, Yuuri learns that he is enough.





	you’ve taken all you can bear

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This fandom really inspired me to write again, wow. I've been mostly inactive for the better part of two years, so here's hoping that this fic satisfies you guys! :) 
> 
> The title is taken from Justin Timberlake and Anna Kendrick's version of the song, [True Colors](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=la0-5QFLr14). :)

"Vitya," he murmurs as he stares out the window, watching multiple dots of light move about while he soars 30,000 feet above them. "Do you—have you ever just felt so... small?"

The cabin is cold, and the lights have yet to be dimmed. Yuuri feels the deep pressure of ascension grounding him, distracting him from the uncomfortable constriction within his chest.

Beside him, Victor raises a brow and hums. He reaches over to glance outside but finds himself restricted by his seatbelt. Though the overhead sign serves as more than a passing reminder to enforce his safety, he unbuckles himself without a moment's hesitation, only to be disappointed to find his view obscured by willowy wisps of gray and white.

"Ah, I might have," he replies carefully but not unkindly. He leans back, all the while assessing his fiancé's mood. Yuuri has been quiet since Victor's exhibition skate in the European Championships. He worries. "I'm not sure I understand your question, _solnyshko."_

A pause. Then: Yuuri lets out a nervous laugh and fidgets with the loose thread hanging off the cuff of his jacket. He wraps it once, twice around his finger, momentarily cutting off the circulation in the appendage. "Of course you don't," he says quietly, as if speaking only to himself.

Victor frowns, unnerved. There is an uneasy sense of tension in the small space between them. "What do you—"

"Sorry," Yuuri interrupts ruefully, sending him what he thinks is supposed to be a reassuring smile. The lack of sleep from the previous night adds to the fog of his brain. He feels twitchy, nervous. His finger pulls with a sudden swift movement, and the string snaps. "It's nothing, really. Just a weird thought."

Victor almost sighs, and it stays as _almost_ because he knows Yuuri—knows that this might send him into that downward spiral of questioning himself, of doubting himself, of _loathing_ himself. What Victor doesn't know yet are the reasons why and the careful hows of hushing the voices in Yuuri's head. There will come a time when Victor becomes attuned to the subtle nuances of his husband's state of mind—he will know when to whisper gentle comfort and love, when to give him space to breathe, when to offer the calming warmth of his arms. But that still lies in the future. For now, he smiles with the promise to learn and instead reaches for his lover's hand, smoothing over tense knuckles and the vague impressions left behind by a thread stretched taut around a lone finger.

"Yuuri," he calls softly. It is an offering—an invitation, or a tender recall to that first day in the loud but soothing heat of an onsen.

In response, Yuuri's gaze flickers towards him searchingly. There is a franticness in the way he moves. He returns the grip, squeezing almost painfully tight, and shuts his eyes as he releases a shaky exhale.

_Oh._ It is enough.

The tears spill messily down Yuuri's cheeks, and Victor uses his free hand to lift the seat divider, swiftly removing the other's glasses before leaning forward to press him against his chest. He feels Yuuri trembling with silent sobs and strengthens his embrace, ignoring the questioning stares from the passengers around them. The woman in the aisle seat beside him wordlessly produces a bottle of water and places it into his cup holder. Victor manages nothing more but a distracted nod of gratitude in her direction. He focuses on Yuuri.

_"Zolotse moyo,_ what is wrong?" Victor whispers pleadingly. He runs a soothing hand down Yuuri's back.

Yuuri's hands have gone stiff and cold. His breathing is erratic. _Everything is too bright._ His ears are full of static. He cries. Yuuri shudders, distressed by stutters and hiccups, and he desperately burrows himself further into Victor. _No,_ he seems to say with the shake of his head. His refusal to meet Victor's eyes are protests of _nothing's wrong,_ convinced that everything will be alright if it isn't spoken out loud—if his feelings are not vulnerable to the open.

Victor threads fingers into Yuuri's hair, slightly tugging them as a gesture of comfort before leaning down to press his lips against the crown of his fiancé's head. When Victor speaks, it is with devoted constancy, repeating a thousand reassurances against the insecurities of a well-worn heart. "I'm here, _lyubov moya._ I'm here. You have me. Nothing can ever change how much I love you, my Yuuri."

Yuuri lets out a small whimper, and Victor is pained to see him struggling to keep himself calm—to do something as basic as taking in oxygen without falling apart.

"Just breathe, Yuuri." Victor slowly but purposefully takes a deep inhale. "I need you to breathe with me, okay?"

Exhale. Inhale. Yuuri gives a single nod. Exhale.

Victor relaxes and resumes his guidance, losing himself in the intermingling scents of tea and mint—something so distinctly Yuuri—as he waits for Yuuri to come back to him.

Inhale. Exhale. The minutes crawl by. Yuuri listens to the steady beat of Victor's heart. Inhale. _Lub-dub. Lub-dub._ Exhale. _Lub-dub. Lub-dub._

Inhale. _Lub-dub. Lub-dub._ Exhale. _Lub-dub. Lub-dub. Ya tebya lyublyu._

Inhale. His own heart palpitates treacherously but not anxiously; his breathing eventually settles. Yuuri breathes in synchronization with Victor, matching the rhythm of his pulse.

_"Victor."_

Victor smiles in relief, shifting to look at Yuuri with unreserved _(undeserved)_ affection and adoration. Yuuri does _not_ understand. When Victor trails fingers along the curve of his cheek, his touch is heartbreakingly tender in its care. The words he utters are the same—an earnest reminder of his love." _Stammi vicino, lyubov moya._ Stay close to me. My life is forever yours to take."

_Oh._ Yuuri tiredly rests his eyes, and Victor's voice washes over him like the gentle crashes of the waves lapping the shore, like the poignant ringing of church bells in Barcelona, like the harmonizing notes of an operatic _duetto._

It is enough.

 

* * *

 

He dreams of contrasts—a lonesome dot of existence in the infinitude of it all. There is no one but him, and the ice stretches for an eternity. Phantom hands guide his arms, his legs.

Yuuri dances for two.

 

* * *

 

When Yuuri wakes, he feels Victor apologetically laying a kiss on his temple as he moves to excuse himself to the restroom. His eyes are swollen, and he blinks blearily as his sight blurs, making it difficult for him to distinguish the dark shadows around him. The occasional reading light and tv screen glow in the periphery of his vision, but he notes that most of the passengers on the flight have fallen asleep.

Yuuri sighs and sluggishly resigns himself to the in-flight services of mind-numbing entertainment. He fumbles around for his glasses and for the plastic packaging of complimentary headphones— _perhaps he can listen to some potential music for next season's programs?_

"How are you feeling?"

Yuuri stills, pausing in his rummaging to face the unidentified speaker. He turns to meet the kind smile and sympathetic gaze of a stranger, and while Yuuri is normally half-convinced that he can pass himself off as a decently functioning member of society, there is the sudden realization that strikes with the knowledge that this woman sits beside Victor. Yuuri's face burns with humiliation. _She was right there—she must have seen him break down like the nervous wreck that he is, oh god._

"Um," he responds pathetically, appearing to be perpetually stressed with the thought of social interaction in his emotionally drained state.

She points to an unopened bottle resting on Victor's cup holder. Yuuri takes it gratefully, using it for the dual purposes of soothing the hoarseness of his throat and buying him time to properly construct an actual coherent answer.

"That was Victor Nikiforov," says the woman, speaking his fiancé's name out loud, as if to dispel any doubts that Victor is who he is.

"Yes," Yuuri affirms unhesitatingly. Victor's fame knows no bounds after all.

"And you're Yuuri Katsuki."

A pause. "Yes?" Yuuri admits unsurely. _They’re not even in Asia? Is this what it's like being Victor's student-husband-to-be?_ Yuuri once again finds himself questioning his place in the universe.

"My husband was a fan," the woman explains, as if that makes any more sense.

Yuuri awkwardly nods. He offers a weak smile. "That's nice."

It's quiet for a while. Yuuri takes another sip of water, and just as he starts to think that the lacking conversation must be a failure on his part, she speaks again. "He must really love you."

Yuuri's brow creases confusedly. "Your husband?"

"No," the woman says patiently. "Victor Nikiforov."

"Oh." Yuuri noncommittally shrugs, staring at the bottle that he still clutches in his hands. "Yeah."

The woman frowns at his reluctance, peering at him strangely. "He does, you know. I saw the way he looked at you. He cherishes you. It was very sweet."

"I mean, yeah. He probably does," Yuuri concedes, but his face crumples. There is an undercurrent of helplessness in the shutting of his eyes, in the clenching of his fists.

"But _why?"_

He does not see her reaction—he has no need to. Yuuri knows she can't answer the question. Victor Nikiforov stands by her seat as he waits for her to move. Yuuri places the bottle back in its holder and finishes unwinding his headphones. Victor settles and wraps an arm around his shoulders, dropping a light kiss to his hair. Yuuri leans into his touch. He picks a classical playlist; the notes of Chopin Ballade No. 1 ring in his ears.

 

* * *

 

It takes some time before Yuuri falls asleep again, but when he finally does, Victor takes the time to watch the man dozing on his shoulder. He frowns as he notices the sense of tiredness lingering around Yuuri—even in his dreams, he wears a troubled countenance; his brows are still slightly furrowed, as if in a constant state of worry.

Victor is at a loss. He doesn’t know what to do.

“Victor Nikiforov,” he hears, the abrupt call breaking his train of thoughts. Victor turns to his seatmate with a strained smile. “Yes?”

The woman _—Maria,_ he reminds himself—pats his arm encouragingly. “There are a couple of free seats in the back. I’ll head over there to give you two some privacy, alright?”

Victor blinks, and his smile grows warmer. “If it isn't too much trouble?” he asks, trying to make certain of the situation.

“Not at all!” Maria replies with verve, nodding her head in emphasis. “I was talking to him earlier. I know—” she gestures to Yuuri, pauses, “I know how much the media likes to sensationalize people like you—talented, attractive, athletic. They paint you as gods amongst men, and your lives are all so great and beautiful. Except when you fall. You stumble, and then you become something of a tragedy.”

Maria reaches into her bag and takes out a worn _onigiri_ plushie. She stares at it fondly, and her focus shifts to somewhere beyond—a different time, a different place.

“My husband was a fan,” she comments offhandedly. “He was so happy to see Yuuri’s comeback last year—it made him feel like he could take on the world.” She stands, looking down at Victor with an emotionally charged expression that he struggles to identify. “But reality isn’t like that. Sometimes, you just can’t—not alone.” She braves a smile. “And that’s okay too.”

Victor glances back at Yuuri—at the slender curve of his wrists, the faint blush of his cheeks, the minute fluttering of his lashes. _Yuuri. Yuuri. Yuuri,_ who is so _so_ precious to him in his entirety, with his strengths and his flaws and all the little things in between. _You are not alone. You are never alone, my sun, my gold, my love._

There is a resurgence of determination flowing through him, and Victor smiles back. His neck is stiff, his knees ache, and there is a stain on the corner of his right sleeve, but all is right. Yuuri is by his side, and Victor vows _forever_ in the words that he utters with the all-encompassing surety of his love:

“That’s okay too.”

 

* * *

 

Victor recalls an empty apartment and muted grays. The world is cold and unforgiving.

But: _We call everything on the ice_ **_'love’_**.

That’s okay too.

Yuuri is warm. Yuuri is soft.

Yuuri is  _home._

 

* * *

 

This is how he breaks:

Yuuri is laughing at an animated chicken pecking at a rock, enjoying a movie of self-discovery and friendship. Victor joins him. There is no evil but pride. Life is an adventure.

This is the calm before the storm.

Victor is cautiously optimistic. He swirls red wine, tiny bubbles floating in his plastic cup. He passes his empty food tray to a waiting stewardess. He gestures for Yuuri to do the same.

As it is, Yuuri is savoring the mild fragrance of his slightly stale tea. He sends Victor a sheepish look. Victor good-naturedly rolls his eyes and takes his tray. Yuuri swallows the last of his hot beverage, relishing the heat sliding down his throat.

_This_ is the calm before the storm.

Before his vision tunnels.

His ears are ringing.

Nothing.

 

                         Then

                                            everything

                                                                        falls

 

His stomach lurches. The stewardess slams straight into Victor. Wine spills. A girl screams.

The resounding low-high chime of the seatbelt sign echoes with warning.

_Seatbelt. Seatbelt._ Yuuri’s hands fumble over Victor’s lap as they hastily attempt to fasten the straps together. Victor is holding the stewardess steady, but he reaches for Yuuri in blind panic.

The stewardess moves with frenzied precision, locking the nearby cart into place before collapsing into the empty seat beside Victor. She signals for them to remain calm.

The plane  _dives. One, two three, four seconds._

A couple behind them recites the rosary. ... _Now, and at the hour of our death. Amen._

Yuuri does not pray.

Victor’s shirt is stained red with the metaphorical blood of Christ.

Yuuri’s life does not flash behind his eyes. Victor’s does.

Yuuri cracks. A plead. “I don’t want you to die.”

Wide ocean blue stares back and whispers, “I-I don’t want you to die, either.”

_One, two seconds._

“Really?”

Victor is stricken.

 

(They are thirty thousand feet off the ground, falling and falling until they aren’t.)

 

                                          They remain suspended in the air. Everything is fine. But:

 

                                                                                            “Would it really matter?”

 

                                                                                                          His heart shatters.

 

_"Yuuri."_

 

* * *

 

Barcelona sings in their ears.

 

* * *

 

"Can we talk about it, _solnyshko?"_ Victor asks, his tone weary and drained but _(always)_ open and patient and kind. There are two blankets shared between the two of them, with one draped over their shoulders and the other over their laps. His hand rests on Yuuri’s own. Their rings are glinting in the light.

Yuuri tugs his end of the blanket. His mind is less of a mess than it was earlier, but he still does not know where to start—what to say. He bites his lip, choosing to focus on the warmth of Victor’s touch (or on the faint chill of a golden ring pressed against his skin), and remains silent. He hopes that Victor would drop the matter for another time.

He doesn't.

Instead, Victor says this: "I'm sorry."

Yuuri looks up in startled disbelief. _I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry._ It is a phrase that he says often—except when Victor tries to convince him that there is nothing he needs to be sorry for, as if he had not committed the grave sin of stealing Victor away from the world (and thus, the world away from Victor)—because Yuuri is very aware of how burdensome and exhausting it is to live with himself. He is selfish. Victor suffers through a daily dosage of Yuuri. Victor is a saint.

In other words, Victor hasn't done anything wrong so— _what is he, why should, why would he—?_

"Why are you apologizing?"Yuuri asks worriedly. His tone is tremulous, and he wonders if Victor can hear the panic racing through his heart. "If anything, it should be me. I'm the one who can't keep it together. I'm the one who dramatically broke down in the middle of a—"

"Yuuri," Victor interrupts quietly.

"It isn’t your fault," Yuuri insists, wildly shaking his head. The blanket covering them both slips.

Victor calms him with a hand gently pressing on his nape. His expression is contrite; guilt shines in Victor's eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Victor starts again, swallowing the lump in his throat.

Hurt realization strikes through Yuuri.

“Are—are you going to leave me? Have y-you finally decided that this is too much?” Yuuri asks, his voice barely a whisper. _But Victor loves him,_ he knows. He knows, and he screams that truth again and again against the doubts that haunt him. He is scared—so entirely afraid of the prospect of his worst nightmare coming true.

“What?” Victor responds in alarm. He immediately brings his hands to cradle Yuuri’s face. “No. _No, lyubov moya._ Please. _Trust me._ Trust in the fact that I love you, if nothing else, Yuuri. I won’t ever leave you.”

“Victor,” Yuuri sighs in defeat.

“I will never leave you, _lyubov moya,"_ Victor repeats firmly, sincerely. He feathers light touches against the corner of Yuuri’s mouth, the softness of his cheek, the delicate skin of trembling eyelids falling shut. “You misunderstand me. That is not what I’m apologizing for.”

“Then what do you mean?”

It takes more than a moment for Victor to answer. Yuuri anxiously waits.

“You—you said you felt small. To hear you say that, as if you truly believed that you are alone and unimportant…” And here, Yuuri feels Victor draw closer, his quivering breath fanning against Yuuri’s neck. “I'm sorry—I’m so deeply sorry if I’ve ever done anything that makes you feel anything less than who you are. I’m sorry for not noticing, _zolotse moyo_. I’m sorry for not making you see how precious you are to me.”

Victor thumbs away the tears running down his face—and _oh, when have they started to fall?—_ and breathes, “If you ever need a reminder of how loved you are, _lyubov moya,_ please just _ask._ ”

When Yuuri opens bright and glassy eyes, he offers a small smile, and Victor’s heart clenches because it is so fragile—so sad, _Yuuri._

“It isn’t you, Vitya,” Yuuri speaks softly, and this time, it is he who initiates the touch between them, lifting a hand to lay flat against his lover’s chest. He again feels Victor’s heart strongly beating. _Lub-dub. Lub-dub. Lub-dub._

Yuuri takes a deep breath. “I know you love me, and Vitya, I love you so much—so so much, Vitya.” He needs Victor to know that. He _must_ know that. “But so does the world. I-I wanted to steal you away from them so badly—let them be jealous, let them be angry! And I thought—I thought that maybe I could be enough. But then I realized, h-how? I saw you. I saw you shine so brilliantly, and e-everyone—everyone was—How can I possibly compare, Vitya?”

It’s painful. There is a vivid image burning in his mind. He remembers the roar of the cheering crowds, the sheer abundance of flowers and gifts littering the vast expanse of the glittering ice, the radiant smile and the joyous laughter of a man who is finally back at his rightful place on the top of the podium. He remembers Victor being happy.

How can Yuuri compare to that?

He is just Yuuri. _Katsuki Yuuri, aged 24, dime-a-dozen skater. Katsuki Yuuri, aged 24, GPF silver medalist—silver silver silver is not the best, not what Victor deserves, not what he asked for—a disappointment._

“I know there are voices in your head,” Victor begins, his words hardly more than a rasp.

And it is then that Yuuri comes to the horrifying realization that Victor too is crying. _Oh, no no no, Vitya, no._ Yuuri rushes to wipe away the tears with shaky fingers, catching the drops before they fall. “Vitya,” he gasps. He can’t bear to see Victor cry. “Oh, _Vitya._ I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m—”

“Yuuri,” Victor cuts him off, holding his wrist, and he begs—he begs, and Yuuri feels the guilt surge through him and and and— “Yuuri! Yuuri, please listen to me—”

The plane suddenly rocks and shudders; the seatbelt sign is illuminated. _"Ladies and gentlemen, the captain has turned on the fasten seatbelt sign. We are now crossing a zone of turbulence. Please return to your seats and keep your seatbelts fastened. Thank you.”_

All is tense again, and the cabin is completely and utterly quiet with the leftover fear and foreboding from the earlier incident. Yuuri’s eyes widen, and his lungs are greedily demanding more air until Victor forces them both to lock gazes. (Until he is not.) Yuuri breathes into the silence, with Victor’s firm grip around his wrist serving as a mental anchor. Minutes pass; the seatbelt sign is switched off.

Sighs of relief are exchanged. With the tension cut loose, Yuuri presses his forehead against Victor’s chest, and Victor’s arms instantly wrap around him in reflex. “I’m sorry... I love you, Vitya. _I love you_ , but it hurts, and it’s so unfair to you. You can find someone so much better. You have the world in your hands, and I should—I really should, but I don’t want to let you go, Vitya— _I don’t want to."_

“Then don’t, _solnyshko._ Don’t let go,” Victor pleads, his voice breaking with unrestrained emotion. “Yuuri, listen to me. _Please. Please?_ I don’t need the world in my hands when I have you, _lyubov moya._ You are so much more than you think—so much more. I was—for years, I was so very lost, Yuuri. You need to understand—I can not go back to living as I once was, without you.” Victor’s embrace tightens, as if afraid that Yuuri would disappear at that very moment. “I could search the whole world, Yuuri. No one is better than you.”

“But I’m just Yuuri,” Yuuri reasons in resignation. He is memorizing Victor, imprinting all of this in his mind—Victor as he is now, before he realizes that Yuuri is just _Yuuri,_ before everything comes to an end.

Victor laughs brokenly. Yuuri winces. _Here. It ends here._

“And I’m just Victor.” _What?_

“...How-how can you say that?”

Victor releases a sad chuckle, and it chafes against the well-established logic of Yuuri’s incredulity.

His thoughts are an uncoordinated mesh of _No_ and _There are hundreds—no, thousands—of people who look up to you_ and _You are a source of inspiration for so many—where on earth would I be without you?_ Yuuri feels righteous anger surge through him, and with the years of experience spent on idolizing a man meant to be a god, he vehemently protests, “Victor Nikiforov is more than enough!”

“Oh? Victor Nikiforov is _flawed,"_ the five-time World's champion bitterly argues. “His whole life is consumed by a sport designed to wreck bodies before they turn thirty—he barely has time to live, much less love. Victor Nikiforov is selfish. The world crowns him with roses, with a career that is unsurpassed, and he abandons them like they are nothing. He is ungrateful and undeserving. Victor Nikiforov is forgetful and obnoxious. He doesn’t have a college degree. He isn’t intelligent enough for it. Victor Nikiforov. Arrogant. Victor Nikiforov. Impulsive. Victor Nikiforov,” and this is nothing more than a murmur, a little note to himself, _"Weak."_

Yuuri snaps. “You aren’t weak!” he hisses.

“I’m choosing to deal with my own insecurities, rather than comforting my fiancé, who might I add, is dealing with an anxious breakdown,” Victor says drily. Yuuri flinches at the blunt assessment of the situation. “I’d say that I’d at least be selfish, if not weak.”

Inhale. Exhale.

The speakers crackle. _“Ladies and gentlemen—”_ inhale _“—as we start our descent, please make sure your seat backs—”_ exhale “ _—and tray tables are in their full upright position.”_ inhale _“Make sure your seatbelt is securely fastened and—”_ exhale _“—all carry-on luggage is stowed underneath the seat in front of you—”_ inhale _“—or in the overhead bins. Thank you._ _”_ exhale

Inhale. Exhale. _Inhale._ “Am I weak, Vitya?” Yuuri pulls back. There are hundreds of other better things that he can say. He settles for this. “Am I weak for sharing my burdens with you?”

Victor’s jaw clenches. “You know I don’t think that, Yuuri.”

Both are visibly frustrated, and fear bleeds through the cracks of their hastily bound relationship. It’s been months, and they’re still new—they’re still learning, and _god,_ they’re trying.

They try again.

“You once said that I was the first person you wanted to hold on to—so please, _hold on to me, Yuuri.”_ There are lines of exhaustion marking Victor’s face, but the wear and tear does nothing; his love is constant—unrelenting.

“But I—” The protest dies on his tongue. Yuuri is tired too.

“You say that Victor Nikiforov is enough.”

“More than enough.”

“Then,” Victor counters, slowly enunciating the words for clarity, “why can’t Katsuki Yuuri be enough too?”

_Love transcends the boundaries of reason,_ Yuuri knows.

“Do I have to be?”

They are descending, and this final stretch is smooth—he does not feel himself falling. He does not feel it at all. Through the window, he sees the infinitesimal lights of the city below them.

“My love is not conditional, _lyubov moya.”_ A hand on his own, twin rings sit side by side. These are promises. (Two halves of a whole.)

The secrets of soft lips are laid bare against the thrumming pulse on his neck. _Lub-dub. Lub-dub. Lub-dub._

The lights grow larger.

His heart feels fuller.

_Ya tebya lyublyu._

It is enough.

 

**Author's Note:**

> *Flight announcements were taken from [airodyssey.net](https://airodyssey.net/reference/inflight/)
> 
> For plot purposes, let's assume that this flight is approximately 15 hours long, from Prague (where Europeans 2017 was held) to Fukuoka. Maybe Yuuri has sponsorships to attend to in Japan. Assuming they fly at around midnight in Prague, by the time they get to Fukuoka, it should also be dark, so just imagine the late night city lights from the plane window seat. 
> 
> If you enjoyed the fic, please leave kudos and/or comments! 
> 
>  
> 
> **Edit (July 25, 2017):**
> 
>  
> 
> So I realized I forgot to put in the translations for the Russian words I used...
> 
> * _zolotse moyo_ \- my gold  
>  * _solnyshko_ \- little sun  
>  * _lyubov moya_ \- my love  
>  * _ya tebya lyublyu_ \- I love you
> 
> I'm kind of in tumblr [here](http://theaveragepenguin.tumblr.com).


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